


Oh, That Magic Feeling

by imonlysleeping



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Hogwarts AU, M/M, McLennon, Quidditch, Swearing, starrison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imonlysleeping/pseuds/imonlysleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which the Beatles are not the Beatles, but instead four ordinary Liverpudlian boys in their seventh year at Hogwarts. Magic, fun, and romance ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hogwarts Express

**Author's Note:**

> After some intense research, I couldn't find a single Hogwarts AU for this fandom, so it automatically became my duty to write one. So here you are, dear readers... 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles (quite unfortunately) or Harry Potter. *dramatic sigh*

The seemingly ordinary train station was bustling one crisp autumn day. Everywhere, people were gathering around, normally with a briefcase in hand and looking as brisk as can be, preparing for a productive day at work. Or, there were those visiting loved ones, and helping their little children aboard the train. Whatever the case, today King’s Cross Station was much busier than usual.

A clean, crisp breeze flew through the air, entering through the open of a door; in its arms, it carried something nobody could deny was in the atmosphere: magic.

Nobody knew why, but it just always felt _really_ quite special on September 1 st—it always did, and inexplicably so. A giddy, cheerfulness flitted through the crowds, one by one, giving hearts something special and exhilarating. Yet people have questioned why it was always on _that_ specific day. After all, there was almost nothing too special about a train station.

Although there were some that had started to grow suspicious. Why were there always at the same time of day people dressed in such strange clothing from out of the blue, and why were there always a particular group of youngsters asking where a Platform 9 ¾ was? Honestly, as if such a thing existed! And _why_ were they all carrying _trolleys_ , of all things?

What these people, or muggles, didn’t know was these strange people were wizards, all preparing for the first day of the term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Quite a distance away from this Platform 9 ¾ was a tall young wizard in his seventh year, named Paul McCartney, sporting a scarlet and gold scarf wrapped firmly around his neck, chatting quietly with his father and his younger brother Michael, who was in his fifth year, farther away from everyone else. Paul was itching to get away and into the train, never minding his father, and not wanting to be late. He was _always_ on time.

The oldest McCartney was speaking patronizingly. “…And make sure you have all your things—we don’t want to forget a textbook like last year, eh, Mike?” The youngest McCartney hung his head in shame with flushed cheeks as the embarrassing memory was mentioned. Their father chuckled good-naturedly, eyes crinkling at the corners and a pipe dangling from his mouth. “And don’t get into too much trouble, alright? Although if it’s necessary—well, don’t hesitate.”

Paul laughed shakily, only half listening, and then looked back once more to see the occasional student running into the brick column. His father was still oblivious to his anxiousness to get to school already.

Jim McCartney finally stopped his monologue, and exhaled heavily, his gaze intensely fixed on his two sons. Paul tapped his fingers wildly against the side his thigh, heart pounding in anticipation. Hogwarts was all that was on his mind.

A sad smile stretched upon Jim’s lips. “I’ll miss you boys. Send me an owl once every week, alright? Or twice.”

“Alright, Dad,” agreed the two boys.

He pulled them into a hug that had the brothers wondering if he would ever release, and then he finally pulled back to say, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go there with you?”

“ _Dad_!”

“Oh, alright.”

He hugged them both once again, and before they knew it, they were suddenly walking quickly away with their trolleys and into Platform 9 ¾.

Paul grinned at his brother, anxiety quickly melting away. His chest rose and fell rapidly, adrenaline rushing through the two McCartney brothers.

They, with their things, hurriedly approached the train—the Hogwarts Express. Within their first step, the noisiness of the wind outside whooshed to an end. Replacing it was the sound of quiet chattering among students. 

They were finally inside. They were one of the first few inside, actually, beside a couple of familiar faces. Paul sighed in relief, feeling his cheeks warm with anticipation. He was so close to home.

He pulled his younger brother to the side, away from everyone else, to an empty corner. At this, Michael showed no confusion. After all, he was used to Paul’s need to be in control of situations.

“Okay, Mike,” the eldest brother was saying, “make sure you have all your things with you, your quills, parchment—all that stuff, okay? And don’t forget to work hard; it’ll be a busy year for you…” He went on, and Michael sort of blocked him out, nodding occasionally as if he was listening.

“I know,” he replied at the end of Paul’s long speech.

Paul patted him once on the back and wished him a quick, “Good luck on your O.W.Ls!” and then strolled off to the loo to change into his robes.

Once inside, he began stripping his regular everyday clothes off. Being a Muggle-born, he was one of the wizards attending here who actually knew what looked normal in muggle attire. Seeing other wizards try to pull off “normalcy” was probably the most amusing thing for him. He pulled the scarf from his neck and pushed it to the side, gingerly taking the dark flowing robe and clothes out of his bag. Soon, he was adjusting his Gryffindor tie, the arms of his robes flouncing as he worked. Once finished, he wrapped his red and gold scarf around his neck to protect him from the chilliness inside. Then, he pulled his wand from his pocket, murmuring a quick spell under his breath, his muggle clothes neatly folding themselves and placing themselves into his bag. Paul smiled with satisfaction, and left to join his usual compartment.

While on his way, he saw his mate George Harrison, another seventh year in Ravenclaw, entering the train. Paul grinned, and greeted his friend cheerfully. “George!” Like Paul, he was also a Muggle-born. They grew up together as kids in Liverpool, as well as his two other mates, only they weren’t Muggle-born like them—they were Half-Bloods. But that didn’t separate them as friends. No, in actuality, they were all very close-knit.

George was crouching down, grunting, with his face strained. “Oi,” said George weakly, “can I get some help here?”

Paul blinked, and then noticed his friend’s many bags trying to board, and he automatically felt a pang of guilt. “Oh, yeah, sure.” And he hurried to help him. He lifted one of the several cases George had, and grunted, almost plummeting to the floor.

“Christ, Geo, what have you got in there?” Paul panted as he tried carrying the bags once again, grasping as many as he can without giving out, and moving them to their compartment, George right behind him.

“Ah, nothing. Just textbooks and the like,” his friend replied. Paul grunted, wondering how textbooks could be this heavy. “And...anewbroomandsomeQuidditchgear,” he added quickly as Paul opened the door and practically threw them onto the seats. His muscles screamed their thanks as he regained his breath.

“What kind of broom?” asked Paul, who had collapsed and was now splayed out on his seat, chest heaving as he tried to recover from the heavy weights. His mate did the same.

“Nimbus 1000,” George grinned. “’s really cool. Wait until John sees it.”

“Yeah,” said Paul absently. Another one of his friends was John Lennon, who played Quidditch with George. John was a Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and the George was a Keeper for Ravenclaw. Because they were friends, they weren’t competitive. Only jokingly so. Whenever their teams played against each other, the two of them would joke on who was the better team, but they were always good sports about it all. Paul himself didn’t play on a team, but at least he enjoyed watching games and playing it with his friends over the summer.

For the millionth time this year, Paul slipped into recounting Gryffindor’s delicious victory against Hufflepuff last year in the Quidditch Cup, sighing blissfully as he remembered how goals were continuously scored, how a Bludger _accidentally_ slammed into Hufflepuff’s Seeker Chuck Davis, and how Gryffindor’s Seeker gracefully soared after the Snitch that was just _right_   _next_ _to_ Davis, ha…

“I’ll be back, just gotta change into my robes.” Paul looked up to see the thin Ravenclaw lifting up his least heavy bag. Paul nodded, going back to think about his beloved sport as George left.

He closed his eyes, and soon all he could see was a bright grassy green field, an excited cheering audience surrounding it, chanting for their favorite team as players drifted - no, glided - through the air quickly as though they were blurred figures. A Quaffle was speeding past, its target the goal...

“Gettin’ comfy, I see.”

Paul opened his eyes and saw that the person opening the compartment door was another one of his friends from Hufflepuff, already in his robes, Richard Starkey—or as everyone called him, Ringo Starr.

Paul grinned, pleased to see another mate of his. “Rings! How have you been?”

“All’s been well, I s’ppose. A bit lonely.” Ringo shrugged. Ringo was cool because he was generally really easy-going and compassionate, as well as funny and quick-witted. He was a good pal. “So how’s your summer been?”

“Good, overall. How’s Maureen?”

Ringo brightened at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. “Very well, actually! I haven’t seen her here yet, but she’ll come soon, I’m guessing. How’s Jane?”

Paul reacted differently when it came to Jane recently. He frowned and scratched his dark mop of a head. His blue-eyed friend noticed this, and concern etched his features. “She’s alright, I guess. I dunno. We’ve gotten into more fights lately.”

“Why don’t you break up with her, then?” asked Ringo, though not unkindly. “If you don’t make each other happy, then what’s the point?”

Paul sighed, hazel eyes downcast. He’d been wondering this himself over the summer. “I don’t know, Ritchie. I guess I just don’t want her to be all upset and brokenhearted, y’know?”

He’d been dating Jane Asher, a fellow Gryffindor, since fourth year, and things had been well between the two of them at first, only now they just seemed to be growing apart. Although there _were_ still moments where they seemed like they could be happy together again like before. Maybe if they worked it out, they’d be alright, only Paul didn’t know if he still wanted to be with her anymore.

The atmosphere in their compartment had gotten kind of depressing at that point, so they decided to just drop the topic. George had joined them once again in his robes now, a blue and white tie resting under the collar of his shirt.

It wasn’t until George and Ringo were discussing animatedly about their summers that Paul started wondering where John was. Of course, John wasn’t usually the very first to arrive, but he wasn’t the very last. And if he kept this up any longer, he would miss the Hogwarts Express.

The very thought unnerved Paul, to the point where his two other friends had noticed his discomfort. “Paul? You alright?” inquired George, his eyebrows furrowed under his bangs.

Paul’s head snapped up in their direction, and then he scratched his head. “Uh, yeah. Just wondering where John is.”

George and Ringo shared a knowing look that went beyond Paul’s attention, and then they were back to chatting.

–

Running into King’s Cross Station as fast as he could was a panicking John Lennon, occasionally shouting at his aunt Mimi to _shut your worrying and hurry up!_ He was pushing through the crowds, trying to make it to Platform 9 ¾ as fast as he could. Mimi was being more annoying than she’s ever been before, shrieking in her shrill voice, “John, _John_! Slow down!”

But he ignored her. He, in fact, wanted to get as far away from her as he can and closer to his best mates. It was all he was looking forward to.

Finally, the crowd seemed to get the idea and split for them. John said a quick, “Bye, Mimi,” kissed her on the cheek, and then ran into Platform 9 ¾, away from her baffled old face. Then he wasn’t there at King’s Cross anymore, but instead running along the sides of the Hogwarts Express, and into the train.

–

“He’ll be here,” assured Ringo, although a bit hesitantly.

Paul was tapping his fingers rapidly against his lap, and both Ringo and George exchanged pointed looks automatically. When Paul did that, it meant he was extremely nervous about something, and when he was, it was best to just not disturb him and let him worry to himself.

Paul, on the other hand, was constantly checking the door, expecting to see John outside of it, but getting the opposite result. This only spurred on his anxiety.

“Geez, Paul, calm down, he’ll be here any moment now,” George insisted, but the Gryffindor ignored him. George scoffed. “Fine, then.” And he continued talking to Ringo.

Within just a few minutes, the people in charge of the train were announcing that the doors were about to close. Paul felt his heart skip a beat in panic. But then, as if following his friends' words of assurance, the compartment door was suddenly flipped wide open. There stood a frenzied, messy-haired John Lennon, looking as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Hello, fellas. ‘Spect all’s been good with you lot,” John said breezily, and landed a seat next to Paul, who stared at him in amazement as he tossed his bags to the corner.

“You arse! We thought you’d be late!” Paul said accusingly, punching his friend on the shoulder. Ringo snorted.

“Nah,” said John as casually as he could while breathing heavily from his run, clicking his tongue and pulling a face. He pulled his glasses off from his nose and shoved them into his pocket, not wanting to be seen with the damned things. Screw Mimi, he had contacts anyway. “Blame me aunt, she prepared a whole speech about how ‘ _this is your last year, spend it well, act responsibly_ ,’ and all that shite.”

Paul nodded sympathetically, remembering his father’s own monologue.

“Anyway, what’s with you all?”

A loud whistle sounded through the Hogwarts Express. A giddy atmosphere hovered over the train at this.

“I got a new broom,” George brought up, visibly trying to not to appear as excited about the topic as he actually was.

John raised an eyebrow whilst trying to find a comfortable position. “Oh?”

Encouraged by his friend’s interest, George continued. “Yeah! It’s a Nimbus 1000.”

John swiveled around in his seat to where his legs were rested against the wall, and his head was resting against Paul’s lap. Paul blushed slightly. “Can I see?” asked Lennon.

Enthusiastically, George nodded and pulled it out from his bag; the broom had a long, polished cherry wood handle with neat straight honey brown twigs making up the tail. It was the most gorgeous thing one could ever witness.

“It’s the _latest_ _edition_.” George couldn’t help but brag a bit.

“Nice,” the auburn-headed Slytherin commented nonchalantly. Paul widened his eyes as he looked down quickly at his friend. That was the fastest, most beautiful broomstick around, and all he could say was that it was _nice_?

Everyone else voiced their surprise loudly and questioningly. John chuckled softly to their reactions, only telling them, “Check in my bag.”

Ringo (since he was the closest) skeptically reached for one of the many cases that were pushed aside to the corner of their compartment.

“ _Not_ that one!” John’s voice rang through their packed room.

Ringo dipped his head to the side in false indignation for a moment, then reached for the biggest bag, and zipped it open. Out came an exact replica of George’s broom, cherry wood and all. Paul giggled at this and at George’s extremely shocked face, who was looking back and forth between the broom and his relaxed friend. “Fucker!” George exclaimed, and John merely shrugged with lifted eyebrows and pursed lips. The other two laughed cheerfully.

“It is nice, though, isn’t it?” Paul mused aloud.

“Yeah, she’s a real beauty…” said Ringo, gazed fixed on the broomstick wonderingly.

George was in an upset mood for the rest of the train ride.

John later took his case and pulled out his robes, changing there as the four boys discussed their vacations, and what they did. None of them did anything special, and so they moved on to other topics, munching on candies gotten from the cart going by.

Paul was in the middle of eating a Chocolate Frog when he said, “Y’know, I can’t believe this is our last year here. I don’t even know what career I want yet.”

John gasped dramatically, and threw a hand over his forehead. “Heavens, no! _The_ Paul McCartney, unprepared for the first time in forever! Oh, how will we go on?” Paul flicked him in the arm, and John did a spastic move.

Fitting a licorice wand into his mouth, George spoke. “He’s got a point, though,” he stated, voice muffled by the candy. “I don’t either.”

“Neither do I,” said Ringo.

A brief, but intense silence as sharp as a knife cut through the four of them, before John sat up from Paul’s lap and rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, you lot! It’s bloody depressing, this is! I thought I knew you all better! We have plenty of time before deciding, honestly!”

“We have a _year_ , John,” said Paul quietly.

The train halted to a stop, and along with it came an end to their conversation. They looked at each other eagerly, everything previously said forgotten. At the same time they all stood up and crammed through their door, occasionally pushing each other to move until they made it out.

As the door opened, revealing the outside, the night air came bristling through the large gathering of students, dark light dimming their faces. Everywhere, people were trying to pass through the exit door. The four moved to join them, only to be crushed by others.

“We’ll be in the 2000s by the time this is over,” John minutes later whispered to Paul, who crossed his arms and snorted.

John and Paul pushed through the crowds together, moving from the back, to the middle, to the very front. To the left was the sound of someone calling, "First years over here!" An exhale of relief left Paul as his gaze moved upwards. Far ahead stood the familiar expansive castle with its many towers, standing proudly in all its glory—Hogwarts.

They were home at last.


	2. The Sorting Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support! I'm glad you're all enjoying it so far! :D
> 
> Now, here's chapter two! *points Paul-style*

In the perspective of some other Hogwarts students, John, Paul, George, and Ringo, were the most diverse group of friends ever to be found. The fact that they were all in different Houses was fascinating, and inspiring, even. Like they were all a symbol of the peace that could be between Houses.

But to others, the mere idea was repulsing. Like, how could a Gryffindor be best friends with a Slytherin? They were _polar opposites_ , after all!

John, who was a Slytherin, was cunning and clever. Paul, who was a Gryffindor, was chivalrous and daring. Ringo was a Hufflepuff, and believed things should be fair. George was a Ravenclaw, and was smart and witty.

In fact, it was most likely their differences that kept them as friends for so long. They were each the missing piece to a puzzle; without one, they would be incomplete. Two puzzle pieces of the same shape could not fit into each other, and especially not four. They just _clicked_.

That’s why there were always people that give them strange looks as they passed through hallways, or even sat next to each other in classes. But in truth, they were all meant for each other. After all, opposites attract, don’t they?

John’s arm was looped around Paul’s, their luggage in the other hands as they slowly moved to the corridors, laughing heartily at a joke Ringo was making and just feeling silly with merriment.

Paul’s laughter calmed down to slight chuckles. John, still trying to control his laughs, let out a breathy sigh filled with tiny giggles, resting his head upon Paul’s shoulder.

Suddenly startled, Paul stiffened—although he wasn’t sure why. He was used to John’s antics, and none of them really bothered him. But yet the contact made him feel, well, strange.

It wasn’t necessarily _bad_ , but it wasn’t necessarily good either. But by then, John’s head had lifted, and Paul, thinking that this was probably just nothing, decided to shrug off the feeling. It _was_ his best mate, so there wasn’t any real reason to feel as he did.

George waved over at his friend Pattie Boyd, who obviously fancied him, and she waved back, grinning. Ringo gave Paul a knowing look. He chuckled.

“Thinkin’ about asking her out this year, Georgie?” John asked, noting the look on the Ravenclaw’s face.

George looked over at John curiously. He lifted an eyebrow, and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. Why?”

“Oh, like we’re ever gonna forget that look of _longing_ and _love_ and—”

The other cut him off, raising a hand. “Yes, yes, I get it, but I meant _why_ are you interested?”

John looked offended. “Why am I— Lads, can you believe what our George is asking us? Why _wouldn’t_ I be interested?!”

George’s cheeks tinted pink, no longer sure of how to deal with the current situation at hand. “I—well—”

“I mean, we _are_ your mates, after all, aren’t we?” John continued, eyebrows lifted high into his hairline. A hint of malice glinted in his brown eyes.

“Yeah, but—”

“George, I am interested beyond belief,” John said seriously.

George rolled his eyes.

Paul, deciding it was a good time to intervene, said, “Well, she _is_ in Gryffindor. I could help you out, if you like.”

“Could you?” asked Harrison, hope in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, Paulie, could you?” John asked, mocking George by putting his hands together and fluttering his eyelashes.

They all ignored John. “Yeah, I mean, if you want.”

“Thanks, Macca.” George grinned, and John suddenly glared at him for use of _his_ nickname, but the others didn’t notice.

They went on like that for a while.  Paul was in the middle of a laugh when they reached the carriages, dread filling him at an instant. He felt a sharp pang in his chest, all cheeriness suddenly gone.

Before, he couldn’t see or notice the dark horse-like creatures, that is, until he was fourteen. He had to be pulled away from school to spend some time with his family, because his mother was ill, and dying. On October 31st, they had all sat at the foot of her bed, watching her with difficulty as she struggled for air. It was incredibly painful to watch. He saw her heave her last breath, her beautiful, pure soul leaving with it.

It wasn’t too long ago, really—three years isn’t very long. It wasn’t until he was in his fifth year that he found out that these creatures were called thestrals, and were only visible to a person if he or she has seen death. Therefore, although they never posed any real threat, thestrals became an easy symbol of loss and hopelessness for him.

Paul unconsciously tightened his grip around John’s arm, his face now serious. John, being as perceptive as he was, noticed his sudden change in behavior, and threw him a questioning look. Paul shook his head and forced a smile on his face, because he knew that this one time, John wouldn’t understand, since _he_ couldn’t even see them and would probably just call him mad and off his rocker. John looked suspicious, but didn’t ask anything. At least, not yet.

The carriage rattled and swung not very gently along the rocky path. It was difficult to see anyone else unless they were right next to you. The dimness of the night sky was just that dark. In a way, to some, this was more comforting than being outside in the harsh light of the sun, where you're completely vulnerable. Here you were protected in the shadows of the dark night.

At this point, Paul detached himself from John, who obviously pretended not to notice, and placed his hands in his lap. Ringo was eyeing him like he normally did here, but then looked away. Paul was uneasy on the carriage rides every year since fourth year, so at this point, they were used to it. To make up for it, he made feeble attempts at making conversation, or at joining in on one. He didn’t do a very good job though, because the jokes and comments he made were dry and a tad bit snide. So he just gave up in the end and settled for chuckling at random intervals.

He didn’t have to worry too much about conversation, though. In just moments, they approached Hogwarts Castle, barely visible; its pillars and towers were completely bathed in darkness, beside the few lights through the windows, shining like they were set ablaze.

The carriages halted to a stop so sudden that everyone jerked forward in their seats. Paul, Ringo, George, and John, in that order, stood up and jumped off one at a time, walking over to join the massive crowd up lingering ahead the stone steps.

As usual, the Entrance Hall was lit with its many torches lining up the walls. Upon the stairs was an ocean of students, seeping slowly the way sand did through an hour glass through the tall double-doors leading to the Great Hall. The four friends, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, joined the crowd and fought through it until they were inside.

Filling the Great Hall was the buzzing of conversations from the four tables across the room, separating each House by table. Above them were multiple floating candles illuminating the room, giving the Great Hall a wondering, mystic feeling. The four gave each other departing smiles and brief pats on backs before heading to their own tables. Paul set off towards Gryffindor, and sat down on the empty seat next to his girlfriend Jane Asher, his black pointed hat upon his head, like she had. They grinned at each other, although both of their smiles were not as whole-hearted as usual.

“Hello, Jane,” Paul greeted. These days he tried to be as casual as he could with her, despite a stiff awkwardness threatening to take over his speech.

“Hello, Paul,” she greeted back. Unlike him, she pushed all the awkwardness aside, and brushed her red locks out of her face. Jane took no bullshit about _anything_ , and he admired that about her. “How was your summer?”

He shrugged. “It was alright, I guess. Didn’t do much. How was yours?”

“Oh, very good,” said Jane, her eyes lighting up. “My family and I went to France, and it was _amazing_ , oh, Paul, you would love it. Everything is just so gorgeous, and the food is so tasty.”

“Y’know, I did go to Paris once, with John,” he told her, a thoughtful expression now on his face. She looked interested and gave an encouraging smile.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, ‘cept, we lived on burgers and milkshakes, I think, so it wasn’t too luxurious.”

Jane laughed and he smiled. He was glad they were starting off well. If they didn’t, then they could very well have just broken up right then and there.

Interrupting his thoughts were the first years pouring in through the Entrance Hall. The Great Hall immediately fell silent. Drawn up to the center was a stool, and placed upon it was the Sorting Hat. One of the first years, with his hair slicked back, looked fearful for his life. Paul felt a bit for him, though he didn’t feel like paying too much attention to the beginning of the ceremony, being hungry and having gone through this for seven years now.

The Sorting Hat kicked into song, and when it finished, there was a loud round of applause. Then, first years were being called to sit upon the stool and put on the Hat. The kid with the slicked hair, whose name was Alexander Adams, was sorted into Hufflepuff, and their table all grinned and welcomed him heartily.

“Babcock, Matilda!”

Matilda was a small blonde bird who looked extremely confident with herself. Because of this, she seemed much taller and older than she actually was. She sat down on the chair and put on the Hat. Automatically, it screamed, “GRYFFINDOR!” His table roared and cheered enthusiastically, while the rest clapped politely.

“Barnes, Lisa!”

A timid girl stumbled over to her seat. Anyone could tell just how uncomfortable she felt under the intensity of everyone’s stares. Paul felt his hand be squeezed by Jane, and he could she felt just as bad for her as he did.

“RAVENCLAW!”

The hat was off Lisa Barnes so quickly Paul was sure it had just jumped off of her. She scurried off to the Ravenclaw table, where the prefect was showing her a seat and smiling at her as everyone else clapped and cheered, though not as loudly as before.

Paul went into a daze at that point, not paying attention and just hearing, “SLYTHERIN!”, “GRYFFINDOR!”, “HUFFLEPUFF!”, etc.

It went on like that for a while, until everyone was sorted, and Headmaster Albus Dumbledore suddenly appeared in front of the podium, dressed in dark blue robes, a pointed hat adorning his silvery hair, and of course wearing his usual half-moon spectacles. The best word Paul could think of to describe the Headmaster was warm, as well as pleasant. You couldn’t help but automatically trust him. He couldn’t think of anyone better for the position other than Professor Dumbledore. At his presence, everyone’s attention was drawn respectfully upon him.

“Welcome all!” greeted Professor Dumbledore quite cheerfully. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts—or to newcomers, welcome to your very first! There is not much to be said this year, other than to enjoy the banquet!” People cheered.

His goblet was filled with pumpkin juice for drink, and suddenly dishes of various foods appeared in front of them: roast beef, chicken, pork chops, potatoes of different sorts, gravy, carrots, chips, and the like; Paul’s belly automatically rumbled furiously, begging him to feed his terribly hungry stomach.

Throughout the course of the meal, Paul stocked his plate up with food and ate as if he’s never seen food before, occasionally pausing to talk to Jane in a polite manner, or to some other of his friends in Gryffindor, like Ivan Vaughan. He was just focused on the food, really—you couldn’t blame the bloke.

It was no surprise when he was one of the first to finish his deluxe meal, so he used this opportunity to talk to everyone. Within minutes, he’d charmed the pants out of just everybody surrounding him, and had them laughing wildly, gasping for breath.

“You’re joking!” exclaimed Pattie Boyd, a friend of George’s.

Paul grinned widely. “Nope! I swear it, it was right there in the common room, not even for him, and he just took it!”

“ _No_!”

“Yep!”

“And then what happened?”

“Well, obviously he was just head over heels over this one bird who his girlfriend absolutely _detested_ , and when she found out, oh boy…” He made a face and widened his eyes, sighing and shaking his head in false-solemnness.

Everyone was dying of laughter. He was telling them of a wild adventure that had happened last year, when his brother had accidentally found a bowl of chocolates with love potion in them that was not meant for him.

“…bruises all over, and I mean _everywhere_!”

 “Then what, Paul?”

“Well, let’s just say she and Michael are not together anymore.”

More laughter.

“Tell us another story!” His listeners nodded eagerly, leaning forward to hear what he would say.

Before he could do anything, desert was now on dishes with puddings of every sort, and cakes and pies. Paul grinned. He was ruled by his stomach, anyway. “Sorry. Maybe later.”

They all shrunk sadly at his refusal, but were delighted to find the deserts on their plates, and gave no objections to that.

When they were finished, their plates disappeared, and everyone looked expectantly to their Headmaster, who was once again at the podium.

“Just a few notices to first years. The Forbidden Forest is, as usual, forbidden for entry. It’s filled with dangerous beasts that potentially could kill you, so I suggest you all keep that in mind if you are considering going inside.

“Also,” he continued brightly as if he did not warn students of their potential upcoming deaths, “Quidditch trials are to be held in exactly a fortnight. Those who wish to join the team should contact Madam Hooch.

“And, well, I think that is all, but if not, I shall inform you later… Now, _sing_!”

As usual, the school broke into song (although it was quite obvious that there were those just mouthing the words, and not actually singing):

“ _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_  
Teach us something please,  
Whether we be old and bald  
Or young with scabby knees,  
Our heads could do with filling  
With some interesting stuff,  
For now they’re bare and full of air,  
Dead flies and bits of fluff,  
So teach us things worth knowing,  
Bring back what we’ve forgot,  
Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,  
And learn until our brains all rot.”

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly with satisfaction. “And now, bedtime. Goodnight everyone, and sleep well!”

Students at the tables all rose simultaneously, prefects shouting for first years to follow them. Gryffindor’s Prefect was Stuart, or Stu, Sutcliffe, who Paul extremely disliked. There was no source of hatred, however, other than the fact that they just really didn’t get along very well. Everyone else headed straight towards the common room, where only one knew the password—“Savoy truffle!”—and the boys and girls went their separate ways into their own dormitories.

His bags were there at the foot of his bed, and Paul grabbed his clothes. He changed quickly into his pajamas, wanting nothing more than to lay down now after such a long day. He finally collapsed onto his bed, pulled his sheets over him, adjusted his pillow. His dark brown hair wasn’t so neat anymore, and was splaying out in all directions. He curled up into a fetal position; within seconds, he had drifted into a golden slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part three, in which Paul dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry you all had to wait so long! I feel so awful - I had to rewrite this chapter a few times, because it just didn't come out the way I wanted. I think it's alright now, hopefully.
> 
> So here's chapter three~

Paul didn’t know where he was. Surrounding him was a valley that seemed to stretch on for forever, with large round hills bulging from the ground, carpeted in bright green. He scratched his head curiously, and inspected the area. Somehow it looked vaguely familiar to him.

A great impulse made him start walking.

With each step, he noticed that the only sound he could hear was his own breathing, and the slight echo his shuffling footsteps made against the grass. There was no wind, no birds—nothing, but sun shining above him. It should have been frightening, the deathly silence, but instead, it made him exhilarated.

Paul tugged the jacket he had on closer to him. He was shivering violently, despite hot day. It was as though he was locked in a freezer. But the exercise served him well. Soon, his muscles were aching and growing tired as he climbed up and down the steep rolling hills, and he was starting to break into a sweat.

He knew he had some place to be. There was an anxiousness that thrilled through his being. He wasn’t sure where, but he knew he was heading in the right direction.

So Paul sprinted forwards. The ground was getting flatter and flatter as he ran, and suddenly, he felta light elatedness slowly consume him, swelling and pulsing in his chest. It was so abrupt and overwhelming he could almost cry.

This made his determination increase. He continued his running until he was finally on flat even grounds. There he paused, gasping and panting in short breaths. It wasn’t until he looked up that he saw his destination.

And then Paul sighed, the kind of sigh that meant he was perfectly content with the world. Sitting on the ground about a mile away was a figure clad in dark brown, back facing him and legs spread into a V shape. Instinctively, Paul knew this was where he was supposed to be. 

For a moment, he just stood and watched, a slow dazed smile spreading on his lips. He could hear himself chuckle, but it sounded muffled and far away to his own ears. From there he began walking towards the person on the grass, but he collided into an invisible barrier. Paul furrowed his eyebrows, and poked at it. Nothing happened.

Wanting nothing more than to be on the other side, he took a few steps back, and then ran with all of his might into the barrier. Strangely enough, it worked, and the figure was closer. Paul grinned, relief rushing up in him, happiness reviving within him. Just a few more steps to go…

But he didn’t have to do anything. In just a moment, the figure was no longer on the grass, and he was no longer in the valley. They were in a little shack, and outside of them was a frantic, raging storm. Peeking through the window, he could see that it was a hurricane. How this tiny place had managed to stay standing and intact, he didn’t know. But he didn’t bother questioning it.

Outside, thunder rolled. His jacket flew off of him, but when he tried to grab it, it disintegrated in his fingers. Panic rose up in him as he looked to the figure, who was sitting in a chair close to him. What if he touched the figure? Would they disintegrate too?

He didn’t want this person to disappear either, so he kept his distance. The figure looked up at Paul and quirked an eyebrow, tsking at him teasingly. For some reason, Paul couldn’t identify the face, but he _knew_ it, he knew it well and had memorized their features. He recognized the slyness and the arrogance and that smirk, oh yes, he knew that smirk very well…

The figure stood up, and Paul looked down at his hands. He hid them behind his back and stared at the figure with mortification, afraid that whoever the person was might disappear, but they only smiled and shook their head. “It’s only me,” the figure said, the voice also familiar, and took Paul’s hands from being his back. Paul stared down at their joined hands and noticed that the other’s were soft and warm and beautiful. He looked back up in astonishment, and before he knew it, the figure’s lips had connected with his.

And suddenly they were kissing, mouths moving slowly against one another’s and melding into each other’s bodies. Paul let go of the figure’s hands and wrapped his arms around the person’s neck, wanting them to be as close as can be.

He couldn’t explain it, but the person’s touch was something Paul knew, something he was used to. Had he met this person before? Did he even know this person’s name?

Looking at the figure, Paul thought that the name logically had to start with a sensual sounding letter, because this person embodied the word. V was a sensual sounding letter, but so was J… And there had to be a W somewhere…

But silly, trivial things such as names could not bother him at the moment. The figure had descended from his mouth and began nipping softly at his jawline, and moved down further onto a sensitive spot in his neck. Paul couldn’t help but gasp faintly, feeling the person become a drug to him. He needed touch, he needed feeling…

Paul grasped onto the figure’s arms, running them up and down as he pulled the other back into a kiss. The storm outside of them was increasingly getting wilder, trees ripped out of the ground by the roots, and water just everywhere. Everywhere but their safe little shelter, which, amazingly enough, was _still_ intact.

There was a table that Paul suddenly found himself laying on while the figure crawled on top of him. He was breathless as he stared.

Yes. He was absolutely sure now. He knew who it was, he knew the face, their every moment, their thought process… Paul just grinned, laughing merrily. His eyes crinkled in the corners. The figure grinned also with that familiar smile and chuckled with that familiar voice, and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

And then suddenly Paul was screaming. The shack had blown off from the ground, objects flying all over the place and hitting Paul directly on the head. The figure was next to him, choking and suffocating in the water. He should’ve done something, but his arms were stuck to his sides. Paul was shouting for help, looking for anybody, somebody, to come and rescue them…

But he was too late. The figure was face-down in the water and was no longer thrashing around, still and dead. Paul was shaking. He couldn’t tell if the saltiness he tasted in his mouth was from the crashing rain or from his tears.

Then everything stopped. The eye of the hurricane was the above them, and the deathly silence and calm of it all was even scarier than the actual hurricane itself. The figure’s body was gone, washed into the waves.

Paul made a strangled sound from the back of his throat. He covered his face with his hands, and wept.

Immediately, Paul awoke from his dream, breathing heavily and feeling extremely startled. His eyes were watery and swollen (was he actually crying?). He lifted his hands up to wipe his eyes and sure enough, wet drags of tears stained his hands. He sighed solemnly, hoping no one had seen or heard him. But thankfully, Paul was the one to wake up early in the morning while everyone else slept in. And judging by everyone’s snores and their spread positions, no one could have.

After quietly changing into his clothes, he went off to the bathroom to comb his hair, brush his teeth, and the like. For extra measure, he splashed water onto his face and tried to remove evidence of his crying. It would only make the situation much worse if anyone noticed. When finished, he left the dorms and the common room, and headed straight for the Great Hall.

Gosh. He didn’t think he really had a dream to top that one, for it had been both the worst and the best he’d ever had. He felt cold as a result, and closed off from the world. He didn’t need to lose anyone else in his life. Maybe that fear was projected into a dream.

But he would dream _that_ about someone like his mother?

Paul contemplated this over and over again in his head, trying to make more sense of it, as he rushed into the Great Hall. There were some people already in there, but not anyone he knew that would start talking to him. He made sure to avoid anyone who would potentially do that, though. Even though it seemed rude, he wasn’t really in a talking mood.

He sat down at his regular seat and reached for a bowl of oatmeal, feeling that something warm would do him some good. He ate slowly, letting the steamy liquid run down his throat soothingly.

Feeling more relaxed, Paul used his time to think. He had recognized that face, but now, he couldn’t bring himself to remember. But he _has_ seen this person before. After all, they say your brain cannot make up a face.

He didn’t know what to do. Paul stared questioningly at his oatmeal. Maybe, if he stared long enough, it would give him the answers to his problems.

 _This is ridiculous_ , Paul thought exasperatingly to himself, and he shoved the bowl roughly to the side in his frustration.

“Whoa, mate, what did the oatmeal do to you?”

Paul looked up and saw his smiling friend, Ringo.

Ah, Ringo. Ringo, who was supportive. Maybe he could talk to him about this. He seemed like the most suitable to help, anyways. George, although he had his wisdom, might not be much of a help, as he would probably not even understand why he was so passionate about it, or would blanch at the mention of a lover, or would call the person Jane—this time Paul blanched; he was absolute sure it was not her. John, well… John wouldn’t be helpful in this either because he would just joke or say that he’s having wet dreams or something.                       

On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t even tell anyone. Just thinking about telling somebody something this personal made him cringe inside. No, this was something that was private and not meant to be shared. Here, he would have to suffer alone.

“Nothing. ’m not very hungry,” Paul told him honestly. He lost his appetite from the moment he woke up.

Ringo nodded and took a seat across from him. He watched Paul very carefully. Then, he asked, “Are you all right?”

Paul blinked. Did he not look right? “Yeah. Why?”

For a moment, his friend looked uncertain. But he gave a vague shrug. “Dunno. You just seem a bit off.”

Well, he was right. But Paul shook his head anyway and pretended nothing had affected him at all today. “Nah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me anyways.”

Ringo looked suspicious, but didn’t question him further. Paul was glad. Hearing that he looked awful didn’t help matters. Ringo asked him, “D’you know when we’re getting our schedules? I mean, I know we get them here, but when?”

“Er, I think in a few minutes, when more people are here.” Paul thought about it some more, nodded, and took back his oatmeal, silently apologizing to it.

A hungry-looking George graced them with his presence minutes, and behind him stood a sleepy John. George took a seat next to Ringo and John next to Paul. Beside him, John yawned the way a kitten would, arms stretched out and everything. After a quick double take, Paul noticed that the other was dressed rather sloppily, with his auburn hair wild and unkempt, his clothes looking like they were literally thrown on, and his tie unloose.

Paul chuckled at his appearance, and smiled fondly. “Tired, Johnny?”

“Mm?” the Slytherin mumbled, eyes droopy as he looked at his friend. “Oh, yeah. Can you get me some tea? I really don’t care which, any’ll do.” Paul nodded and did as told, grabbing just a random packet, tearing it, and placing it in a cup of boiling water. He slid it over to John, who caught it sluggishly. He passed milk and cream, and whatever else John might need. “Thanks.”

John was funny when he was sleepy. He wasn’t sarcastic or silly—not that Paul didn’t appreciate those qualities—but he seemed peaceful.

“Peppermint,” John said thoughtfully into the silence, swirling his cup.

George snorted, clearly amused, and he twirled around a spoon in his fingers. “I don’t remember him being like this very much.”

“’Cos he isn’t,” replied Paul. “Wonder what’s got him so tired today. John?”

He looked up. “Hmm?”

“How’d you sleep, son?” Ringo asked gently, placing his elbows on the table.

John thought about this for a moment, and then answered, “Very well, actually.” He brought his tea up to his lips and sipped.

George shrugged at this. “Maybe he doesn’t sleep well often, then,” he theorized. It seemed possible, but there was still some skepticism in his words.

“Nah. But at least he’s in a good mood, yeah?” Paul said after draining a glass of water. They all went along with it.

A few minutes went by and they were still without their schedules. Jane eventually entered the Great Hall with her cheery friends at her side. Her eyes met Paul’s, but she didn’t wave or smile at him like she normally did. Instead, she walked on by without sparing him a second glance.  

George noticed this and threw him a questioning look.

Paul chuckled bitterly, a dry smile on his face. “I dunno, really. We were just fine yesterday, but it all seems so far away now…”

“Well, I hope things clear up between the two of you, for better or for worse,” George said with a smile. Paul appreciated the gesture. Next to him, John was mumbling incoherent things into his mug. No one acknowledged it.

Their schedules were delivered to them minutes later. Naturally, they began comparing theirs with each other’s. Paul apparently had two classes with just George, which was Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration. With Ringo, he had Herbology, and with John he had Charms and Potions.

“Look, Johnny, we have three classes together,” Paul said cheerfully to his sleepy friend. He pointed for extra measure. John looked, but he didn’t seem too interested. Paul unconsciously tapped his foot fast against the floor, and then shrugged when he saw that he was a lost cause, turning to his other two friends.

“Why bother?” Ringo asked with a hint of a smile. Paul snorted and nodded in agreement.

Then an idea popped in Paul’s head. “Hey, George,” he called, and the Ravenclaw snapped his head in Paul’s direction. “If you want to work on that Pattie thing, go to her see what classes you have together. It’s a start,” he suggested, shrugging a little at the end.

George thought about it for a moment, then nodded, telling him thanks. From there he stood up and marched off to Pattie Boyd.

The three sat in silence, eating their food and looking some more at their schedules. Thankfully for Paul, he had Transfiguration with George, who was really good at it while he was not. He was all right with DADA, but that was a pretty easy subject anyway. Herbology he was good at, but now he had Ringo to help if he needed some. Charms and Potions were his best subjects, and were John’s worst, so he could help his friend out on that. It seemed like he was pretty set this year.

“Oh, Merlin, I cannot do this.” Paul gently turned John to face him. The other watched him mutely and curiously as Paul reached for John’s emerald and silver tie, and began doing it properly for him. His fingers worked deftly, and with a final tug, Paul released it, finishing with a, “There.”

John rolled his eyes. Suddenly, his energy was back. “Thanks, _Mother Paul_.”

“Mother Paul,” Ringo repeated, a strange look on his face. “Nope, sorry. Doesn’t sound right.”

“He is motherly, though. You must admit,” John said, pointing a finger at Ringo, who shrugged.

Paul scoffed. “I am not motherly,” he retorted. He looked over at Ritchie for some support, but instead he got a look that clearly said _Sorry_ on it, and Paul’s mouth dropped.

George conveniently returned at that moment and sat down, a happy smile on his face.

“Geo, am I motherly?” asked Paul urgently, refusing to believe such nonsense.

George considered this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, you’re pretty motherly.”

Paul couldn’t believe his ears.

“But not in a bad way,” continued the Ravenclaw, as if he was helping. “I don’t think we could’ve made it without you.”

His friends were actually ganging up on him.

“Oh, calm your knickers, Mother Paul,” John teased. “At least you’re not the sister.”

He was growing annoyed now. “Why can’t I be the brother? Or the father? Or _some_ masculine title?”

John shook his head. “Because let’s face it, hon, those plucked eyebrows do not lie.”

He couldn’t do this anymore. Paul went red in the face, and the words were out before he could stop them. “I DO _NOT_ PLUCK MY EYEBROWS.”

And just like that, the entire Hall fell silent, their stares heavy and on him. Suddenly _everyone_ burst into laughter, and Paul groaned into the hands that were now covering his face. His friends’ grins were poison to him. Paul was just absolutely mortified.

“You’re dead, Lennon,” Paul growled, eyes glinting dangerously and a tiny bit playfully.

John had a Cheshire grin on his face, and he stood up from his seat. They ignored the stares still on them. He started running away, and he shouted, “Only if you catch me!”

Paul jumped out of his seat and immediately chased after him, nearly tripping over his own feet as he ran down the corridors.

Maybe this year wouldn’t turn out to be as good as he’d hoped.


	4. The (Unfortunate) First Day of School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for the update! The chapter's not properly edited, because I wanted to get it out already, since you guys deserve it for the wait. So I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely messages!

It had been twenty minutes since Paul and John had stumbled out of the Great Hall. The laughter had calmed down by now, and people had returned to their grumpy first-day-of-school silence, eating irritably to themselves.

Abandoned by their two friends, Ringo and George were the only ones left at their table, finishing their breakfast that went slightly cold. George swirled his spoon in his tea. Glancing up at Ringo, he felt like there was something that should be said, and that he should be the one saying it. How could he not after what had just happened?

He picked up a jam butty, took a gargantuan bite, and said with a muffled voice, “You know, I don’t think Paul’s ever gonna live this down.” Ringo huffed in agreement, and look around for confirmation. As expected, some were looking towards the exit with barely contained grins. Some of the biggest idiots were smoothing out their eyebrows or were pushing them up to look round (although extremely unsuccessfully).

“Mmm. Poor lad. I suppose it’ll wear down soon enough, though. It’ll have to,” said Ringo, stabbing his food with his fork. At this point, the loud chortles and giggles were making his ears throb. “Good thing he’s got us, though, to protect ‘im.” George could see it: Paul walking down the halls, people taunting him, and Ringo jumping in front and blocking him. Probably with a cape.

George chuckled at the image, a half smile on his face. “Yeah, I guess. It’s not like his _entire_ reputation’s at stake, anyway. At least they’re not calling him queer or anything.”

The words had just slipped out of his mouth, since he hadn’t really given much thought to the sentence, so George only heard a vague overall of what he’d said. However, Ringo’s face went from amused to alert within half a second.

“George!” said Ringo, voice hushed but still insistent. He was getting increasingly distressed. “Christ – what if they do?”

George quirked an eyebrow. Again, his voice was muffled from the food in his mouth when he asked, “ _What_?”

Ringo’s wide eyes slid side to side, looking to see if anyone heard him. He leaned in across the table and brought his voice to a whisper.

“You know… Call him _queer_.”

He stared, and then remembered what he said. “Oh.” George laughed, which only made Ringo grow even tenser. “Look, they won’t. Loads of wizards here don’t even know what being queer _really_ means. It doesn’t mean anything to them, other than it being an insult.”

Ringo looked uneasy. “Not everyone. What do we do then if they start calling him – _that_.”

“Stick up for him, o’ course. What else?”

The blue eyed Hufflepuff nodded fervently, but then said, “Yeah, yeah, I know, but how will _he_ deal with it?”

George looked at Ringo strangely. He was being awfully persistent about the topic. George knew Paul wouldn’t really care – he knew Paul the longest, after all. There was no reason for Ringo to get all fussy. “Paul’s a tough lad, he won’t mind.”

Ringo bit his lip again.

George shook his head. “Drop it, okay?” There was a twinge of irritation in his voice. It was bothering him how Ringo was so sure that Paul would be insulted in such a way. “He’ll be fine. And if he isn’t, well, he has us, and that’s as good as it can get.” There was a tone of finality in George’s voice. Ringo must have noticed, because he automatically shut up and drank from his tea.

 

***

 

“ _You fucking twat!_ Come _back_ here, Lennon!” Paul shouted, fists clenched tightly as he ran. He was running corridor after corridor, watching John disappear into another hallway each time. At this point, he was wondering why he was even bothering. What would he do? Shout at John? Wrestle him? It wasn’t worth it, really.

Still, he here was chasing after him.

He was definitely angry at John, though. Furious, even. Ridiculing Paul in their group of friends was nothing. But in front of the whole school? That was a whole different story.

Paul had finally caught up to John, reaching for the hem of his shirt and hauling him down to the ground. John didn’t seem to care as he fell. He was laughing hysterically, gasping for breaths, and fueling Paul’s frustration.

Each sound made from his friend was only a sharp stab to Paul’s ego. He could be running away right now, Paul thought. John wasn’t even being restrained. He was lying on the floor, completely defenseless. A thin layer of sweat was plastered on John’s forehead, his face flushed pink from the running. Paul was panting himself, the room a few degrees higher than it was five minutes ago. Chasing after his friend was no easy task.

“Ah… Just marvelous, that,” John murmured, tossing his head to the side with a big fat grin on his face.

Cold embarrassment seeped its way inside him like liquid ice. “It was _not_ marvelous!” Paul exclaimed, cheeks hot and bright. “John, that was all your fault – it _was_ ,” he said accusingly at his friend’s doubtful look. “And now I’ve gone and made a fool of myself in front of the school, thank you very much!”

John rolled his eyes. Paul placed a hand on his own forehead, as though this would calm him down. Snickers were still escaping John’s mouth, and despite how much it embarrassed Paul, he forced himself to ignore it.

Eventually, Paul was ready to deal with his friend, calmly.

“John,” he said patiently. Smiling honey eyes immediately locked onto a tense hazel, but that wasn’t what Paul wanted anymore. Something about John looking at him so openly made Paul have the urge to shift his gaze to something else. “John,” he repeated unnecessarily.  

“Paul, Paul,” John mimicked. Paul stared down at the ground, deliberately ignoring his friend for that.

John was in that mood where he just craved striking up bonus, unwanted anger in people, and Paul refused to play a part in that.

So Paul just sighed. What he really, actually wanted to do for the first time since first year, was to go home, lock himself in his room, and separate himself from the world. He needed it. Maybe later he could spend some time later with Jane. Despite the odd behavior that morning, they seemed fine yesterday. He missed her.

“I’m serious,” said Paul. He had his Consoling Voice on. John hated when he did that. It reminded him of his aunt scolding him subtly as a child, and suddenly, he didn’t want to listen to whatever Paul had to say.

“You _do_ realize what you did, right?” Paul asked, noticing John’s sudden change of behavior and cringing slightly. He had shut himself off from Paul. His heart tightened, but he did not give up there. “We all have limitations, okay? And I’m sorry, but you pushed pass mine, and as a result, the whole school heard that _stupid_ little comment. Now everywhere I go people are going to be asking the question – ‘Do you pluck your eyebrows?’ – nonstop.”

John looked at Paul curiously, asking “Do you?” Just to provoke him.                                                                                             

“No – John!” Paul scowled. Did he really have to repeat himself? “I thought I made myself _quite_ clear. Like, announced-it-to-everyone-in-the-world clear, love.”

John let out an airy laugh, recalling the event. “That was kinda funny though. You have to admit.”

Paul glared daggers at him, though an unpleasant ache twisted in his chest. He could see years of humiliation in the future. His cheeks tinted a bright pink. “Maybe for you. Not for me.”

John shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Silly Macca. Who _cares_ what people think? I don’t, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I’m not _you_ , though,” Paul said stubbornly. “I’m just upset, is all. You shouldn’t have done that.”

It was expected, John’s reaction. He was never one to take scolding from anyone. But if Paul didn’t do it, then who would? "There you go. You're so full of yourself, thinking that everyone in all of England cares! Yeah? Well they _don't_ , okay? Fuck, Paul, you can’t change the past. What’s done is done—just let it _go_ already!”

Paul’s mouth twisted to the side wryly, ignoring the first part, yet fully aware of the truth being presented to him. "Yeah, I know. I _know_.” He decided to give up. Sometimes there was no winning with John, and that stubborn look on his face told Paul he was going to get nowhere with him. If he went on further, a full on argument would’ve played out, which was completely unnecessary. And John wouldn’t understand unless something similar happened to him. So what was the point?

He would only win in the end, anyway. He always did.

Paul exhaled deeply. John had a hint of a scowl on his face, and his overall body language seemed tense. It looked like he refused to talk, so Paul didn’t say a word, trapping them in a thick uncomfortable silence. Which Paul couldn’t _stand_ because he was always chatty. But what was even worse was that he was starting to some other things as well, such as his aching bum on the hard cement of the floor, and a craving he’d been trying to ignore pointlessly.

And then, the subject changed, along with John's demeanor.

“You know what I really want right now? Like, really want?” Paul asked suddenly, his gaze hard and pressing on the wall.

John hummed a casual, vaguely interested, "Hm?"

Paul licked his lips. “Some fags. Just, really fucking badly. It’s killing me inside, and I need one more than ever now,” Paul said, the confession spilling out like an endless stream. He wished he would have brought at least one of his packs with him. The problem was that there was a “no smoking” rule, and Paul didn’t like to violate rules. However, the craving was maddening. At this point, he was willing to do anything.

He wondered if this is why some people didn’t want to smoke.

“Well, quit,” John said jokingly, a small smirk on his face.

Paul laughed aloud at that. “Yeah, right.” The idea seemed ridiculous.

John laughed, too. “’m right there with you on that, mate. But don’t worry yer pretty little head, Macca.” He put a hand over his mouth and giggled mockingly, eyes alit with mischief. “I snuck in a few packs. I can give you one whenever you’d like.”

At that moment, Paul never felt more grateful towards anyone. “Shit, are you serious?”

John inspected his nails and, with a half-smile, said with a bit of a laugh, “Now, now, I don’t come cheap. Everything has a price, you know,” John said matter-of-factly. Paul nodded understandingly, but a little hesitantly; he was never sure what could come in store with John around. “You have to do three essays, whichever one I choose— _beautifully_ ,yet believingly of course—for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Yeah?”

That didn’t sound too bad. And it wasn’t like Paul had never done an essay for John before. He was quick to agree. “Yeah, sure. Alright.”

John grinned, pleased at his acceptance. “Good. So, free period, then?”

Paul nodded once. He was excited at the prospect of having his cigarettes back, though he didn’t want to seem too desperate. “Uh-huh. Where?” asked Paul.

It was almost too naïve a question, and Paul should’ve known that. But he was distracted by the anticipation. John gave him a look. “You know where.” Paul watched him stand up, and put on his glasses. “See ya, Paulie.”

John left, and Paul was left to his own emotions.

 

***

 

The worst part of the first day of school was the introductions. There was almost no reason for them, because he’d been through this class six times before. Still, George sluggishly listened, despite his desire to divert his attention back to his own thoughts. But the only one on his mind at the moment was Pattie Boyd.

She was in this class, too, with Paul. Sometimes he would catch her eye, and she’d smile the most beautiful smile that would make him feel like he was about to melt into a puddle right there.

He really tried not to stare at her. If he did, the only thing that would come out of it would be awkward smiles and rosy cheeks, not to mention the conversation that had a 50/50 chance of happening afterwards.

But it was _so_ hard, what with her golden hair that bounced with her every movement, her big blue eyes, delicately shaped nose, and plush lips. She seemed to define grace.

At least he had a reason not to look. Paul was sitting next to him, and George could just feel his smirk and gaze on him glaringly and obviously. His dark brown eyes stared directly at the teacher, completely unwavering. He heard Paul chuckling softly, knowingly, smugly.

Paul, he concluded, was a git.

Or maybe he was the git, George found himself thinking. _George_ was the one going mad here, and practically fawning over a bird who wasn’t even in the same house. Paul was just the not-entirely innocent bystander.

George found his eyes wandering until they found the back of Pattie’s head. Seconds went by, and she turned around, catching his eye and giggling softly and smiling gently. She sent him a slight wave then he found himself returning. Her grin broadened, and she faced the front of the class once again.

Paul was chuckling again. His eyes weren’t on him this time, but he just leaned in slightly, and whispered, clearly amused, “You’re hopeless, mate.”

George knew he was right.

Paul wasn’t the git. _He_ was.

 

***

 

John knew this year was going to be the worst year of his life. Transfiguration was easily his best subject, but after hearing the course requirements and all about that N.E.W.Ts rubbish twice now, he was certain he would fail each and every one of his classes.

The worst part of it all, he was alone in this class with no one but his narrow-minded, bigoted Slytherin pals, and some Ravenclaws who held a massive grudge against his house for some prank including the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, bewitched snowballs, and pumpkin juice that happened two winters ago. And neither of the Ravenclaws included George, which fucking sucked.

Still, there was a sense of unity over the room as their teacher, Professor Foster, went on and on about how _extremely difficult_ the class would be, and that you must be _extremely prepared_ and qualified. Together, everyone’s eyes widened in horror and shock as the Professor told them what sorts of things they would have to do this year.

John was feeling screwed over and it was only the first day of school.

 

***

 

Along with his other friends, Ringo was growing distressed. In his own Transfiguration class, the expectations were incredibly high, to the point where he didn’t have enough confidence in himself to exceed those standards.

Ringo slumped against his arm. The more he listened, the worse the news got, so he shut out his professor.

Maureen, though, and thankfully, was in this class with him. She sat next to him, lightly stroking his shoulder. She, too, was panicking inside with the rest of the class. Ringo could sense it in the way she touched him, like how sometimes she stiffened, and then quickly resumed her movements.

She was helping, though. He didn’t think he would’ve survived the class without her.

He really loved her. She’d been through so much with him these past few years, and their love and adoration for each other ran deep. Sometimes Ringo was so shocked by the beautiful person that she was that he had to ask if she really loved him for reassurance. Of course she would always laugh and say, “Yes, _yes_!” and kiss him with all the passion she could muster.

Ringo was even thinking of proposing once school was over.

 _Maureen Starkey_ , he thought curiously, and felt that it sounded rather nice.

She stiffened her hand agains, and then hastily continued her ministrations. She did that about four more times before class ended.

It was silently agreed between the both of them that this year was going to _reek_.

 

***

 

Paul found himself standing in the middle of the Quidditch field. He felt incredibly light at the moment, despite the suffering he went through in his past few classes.

It was sort of an unusual feeling with him, considering how busy he often was, whether it was internal or external. But he didn’t want to disrupt that peace, even with his own thoughts. Surprisingly, it was quite easy, and it felt relaxing.

Paul wasn’t even fully aware of himself leaving the castle.

It felt good.

The field was completely deserted. He was so used to seeing people cheering wildly in the stands, Quidditch players zooming in the air and balls flying past. It was strange seeing it so abandoned. Plus, the sky was particularly cloudy, looking as though it was about to rain, and the wind was breezing past. It was a nice place to surround him in. He allowed himself to close his eyes and just wait.

The wind whistled softly in his ears. It was no surprise to him when he heard a rustling sound approach him, and he opened an eye, and then the other. John stood a few yards in front of him, inspecting his surroundings, just as Paul had done. He looked the way Paul had felt.

Paul could feel a heavy atmosphere surrounding them called anticipation, and Paul could no longer help himself. "You got the stuff?” he asked, cutting the silence and bringing them both to reality.

John had a small smile. “You make me sound like I’m a drug dealer or somethin’.”

Paul chuckled. “Well, technically, you are.”

“You know, I’m about finished with technicalities now,” John moaned, shaking his head fervently. Paul nodded sympathetically. “God – let's just get on with it.”

John dug his hand into a pocket inside his jacket. Everything was just building up to this moment, Paul thought. To him, the situation felt similar to the way a surgeon felt during an important part of an operation, as if something could go drastically wrong, like the headmaster catching them and putting them in detention, and he felt a wild, jittery panicking in his chest. But then – success! – out came a pack that had Marlboro written on the top in fancy black script, and the familiarity made relief wash over him. John handed it to him with a lighter.

“Thanks, John,” he said sincerely.

Moments later, they were sitting on the stands, Paul and John both with a ciggie in hand. He nearly wept, because he was to relieved to feel smoke pass out through his mouth. It had been too bloody long, and he felt so at ease. He really did need it.

Especially after today. Only a few classes had passed, and Paul had never felt so stressed in his life. What with the N.E.W.Ts going to happen, and the pressure of having to choose a career soon. Not to mention the idiots who were subtly making fun at his eyebrows. God. Paul took a hateful drag his of his cigarette, and exhaled.

At least they weren’t doing it directly.

 _Yet_ , he thought bitterly.

Paul scratched his head. John began to tell all of his worries that he had for the year so far. “...I mean, I know I’m gonna fail. I can _feel_ it, Paul. Really. I don’t see the point in really bothering this year with anything.”

“Oh, don’t say that, John,” Paul said, and nudged his friend on the shoulder. “I bet you’ll do fine. You always get good grades, you know. You’re a smart bugger, you are.”

John nudged him back. “Maybe just a bit.”

Paul smiled. “See? That’s the spirit.” His friend snorted.

He was glad John was with him. Paul felt secure around this particular friend; comfortable, and enjoyed moments like these, when it was just the two of them together. He loved his other friends, too, of course, and a great deal. But there was a bigger connection between John and Paul. He treasured their friendship greatly.

Their knees bumped against each other’s, and stayed there, causing warmth to rush through Paul soothingly in the cool weather.

They stayed like that as if they had all the time in the world.


	5. Pattie's Declaration

“Er, Mike?”

The youngest McCartney brother lazily looked over to one his best friends, Lewis Hadden, expectation in his eyes.

Lewis had scruffy, unkempt blond hair, and blue eyes so piercing and wide (even though they were not really that big) that, if he didn’t know better, could have belonged to a psychopath. His clothes always looked like they were thrown on; for example, his tie would be loose or slinging around his neck, or his robes would be on backwards – or even a bit sideways. He was a strange lad, but he always emitted such a positive energy that had everyone wanting to be near him. And he was nice, too, which was a bonus.

Lewis’s eyes, surprisingly, were wider than usual, just barely freaking out Mike. “Your brother… What’s his name? Paul?” Mike nodded cautiously, a bit of unease taking over his face. “Is he the one who just ran out?”

The thing with Lewis is that you could never tell what he was feeling, even though he was probably the most expressive person in the world. Right now he looked like he was thrumming on energy, but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He was looking at Michael so intently, waiting for an answer, and no matter how much Mike searched his face, he couldn’t figure out a single thing, whether he was finding the situation funny or startling.

It was a bit annoying, sometimes, but in other cases, it was nice. If he was judging you, you wouldn’t be able to tell, even afterwards.

Mike blinked, recovering from his thoughts and remembering he had a reply due. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s Paul,” he said in an off-hand manner.

Lewis nodded, his innocent face still intact. “I feel bad for him,” he said, and it was weird, hearing him saying it so bluntly and directly, for Mike hadn’t heard him talk so openly before. Lewis laughed at the strange face Mike was probably making, and continued, “Well, I mean. Come on. Whatever his friends said – that wasn’t very nice. I can only imagine the embarrassment.”

Mike grimaced. He didn’t like hearing people talking about his brother. It could be in the most flattering way, but he would still feel uncomfortable. No one really knew Paul McCartney the way he did. Even then, he didn’t think he knew him very well either. “Yeah, I guess. But Paul’s not that kinda person. He usually just shrugs off shite like that.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow and made a comical, sort of smiling, face. “It don’t matter what kinda person he is.” He licked his fingers from the food he was eating, and Mike laughed, though slightly disgusted at the public display. “With a reaction like that, anyone in the world could see he’s embarrassed. There’s absolutely no doubt about it.”

Mike was getting slightly frustrated, but didn’t let himself show it. Absolutely no doubt, yeah, his arse. “Paul’s a very…complex person,” he tried to explain. “You’re either just as right as a person who points out there’s stars in the sky, or you’re dead wrong. It’s hard to predict what he’s like. He’s just naturally unpredictable. I mean, look at him, he’s a good lad, right? Yet he makes a friend like that Lennon bloke. A bit opposite, y’know?”

Lewis stared at him in the face, completely blank. At least Mike could say that he understood that look. He had no idea what Mike was talking about.

“He’s a Scouser!” Mike continued proudly. “We don’t like little sissy things like that bother us.”

His friend cocked his head. “He seemed pretty bothered to me, mate. Maybe you should check on him or somethin’.” He stood up and popped a chip in his mouth, before having a look of urgency. “God, I need to use the bathroom!”

Lewis ran out in a way that seriously concerned Mike, thinking he would trip on his own legs, but he managed to get out fine.

He was an odd one, that Lewis was.

 

***

 

John walked into Charms with Paul following right behind him. John pretty much chose the seats, and Paul unquestioningly sat next to him. It was pretty much routine, and they had done it thoughtlessly, while a very few of their fellow students were gaping at them in horror and disgust for even considering sitting near each other.

Literally. The whole room was divided – one half contained Gryffindor and the other Slytherin. John was sitting on the Gryffindor side, because, as he had said one too many times to Paul, “I swear to God, this lot is full of a bunch of cunts,” referring to no other than his own house. “And you guys are chill as fuck. All I hear every day on a fucking daily basis”—Paul always smirked at this part, because sometimes John had no idea how he structured things—“is how muggles are the fucking scum of the universe and that kind of shit. Let me tell ya, Paul, nothing gets more annoying than hearing a bunch of know-it-alls spewing politically incorrect crap like that every day for years.”

And then Paul would agree, because sometimes it really got scary with some of the better-known Slytherins. They weren’t all that bad, but sometimes, well…

He preferred not to deal with them, unless it was John or someone he trusted.

“What the fuck, Paul?” John suddenly asked, and Paul immediately looked at him before realizing what was wrong. John was on the left of him.

It wouldn’t have been a big deal to most, but Paul was left-handed, and John hatedhatedhated it when their arms bumped into each other when writing. So Paul agreed to always sitting on the left side of him to avoid that issue, because it annoyed him, too.

Paul jumped over John and John jumped over Paul, leaving a weird clumsy mess of limbs that no doubt gave them quite the stares from their apparent audience. When finally seated properly, John smiled, teeth showing and everything, and of course, Paul smiled back.

Their Charms teacher, Professor Channing (John pointed out this was fun to say – Charming Channing Teaches Charms) was droning on and on about the basics that they already knew by heart, but wasn’t giving anything new yet.

That’s how he introduced the lesson, too. “This week we’ll be refreshing on some of the things we discussed last before summer.” And as soon as those words were spoken, the attention of the class completely strayed away from the teacher.

Paul paid attention, though. Unlike apparently everyone else in this room, he liked to succeed. Paul listened intently, and made notes, jotting down practically everything his teacher was saying, and making sure to dip a sufficient amount of ink to his quill so it would last longer.

He dipped his quill a third time before writing again, scribbling down extra pieces of knowledge that he’d learn from experience.

\-          Be careful with how you use this spell

\-          Either ends up right or doesn’t

\-          Wave wand gently but firmly

It was no wonder why this was his best class. Looking back, it was the notes that helped him the best, and adding the extra details. There was always something that the class forgot, but he managed to save it and remember it after writing it down. He felt very confident about this class this year.

John, on the other hand, did not. Contrary to what Paul was doing, John was on the verge of sleep. Professor Channing had always been very boring, wearing very ordinary clothes and having plain features and a dull voice. It seemed that the new year did not liven him up at all.

A benefit of the class, though, was that the professor never looked at the class, since his high insecurity was obvious. John and the rest of the class, excluding Paul, took advantage of this. Feeling himself yawn, John leaned back in his chair for a more comfortable position, preparing himself for a quick snooze. He could always ask for Paul’s notes in the end, anyways.

But then a crumpled up piece of paper hitting the back his head interrupted all of that. John felt mild indignation spark up in him as he picked it up from the ground. Paul noticed, too, and even stopped writing. John spread out it with his friend leaning over his shoulder to look. In really bad, yet sharp handwriting, were two words, underlined twice for emphasis:

_**Blood traitor** _

Paul widened his eyes, but John merely guffawed. He looked over to his house’s side and whispered harshly and angrily, “I have a right mind to thump you all in the heads.” John saw with pleasure that a good portion had widened eyes and reddened cheeks. “But sod you all, I ain’t betraying anyone – I’m not a pureblood, you fucking tossers.” He crumpled the piece of paper once again and threw it to their side, not even caring where it ended up.

A kid in the corner of the back of the room named Peter sat with a deeply flushed face and a scowl, looking extremely frustrated. John turned around and shot him the middle finger, watching with satisfaction as he pointedly shifted his gaze from John to his table.

John turned around and slumped into his seat, sighing exasperatedly and rolling his eyes. This was the only thing he hated about Hogwarts, dealing with their antics. It was fucking annoying. George had told him that it sounded like they were kind of bullying him, but John had laughed, because that was ridiculous. On the other hand, while the Slytherins’ hate messages annoyed him, messing with them in return also brought John great joy. And besides – John doesn’t get bullied. That’s a fact.

He lazily glanced over at his ever so studious friend. Paul, expectedly, looked extremely annoyed. John sat up, laughing softly. “Hey, hey. You alright?” he whispered, a smile dancing on his lips.

It was funny how defensive Paul could get over some things, and knowing that he was getting defensive over John fed his ego a bit. “Yeah,” Paul said, sounding disgusted. “That’s fucking sick, what they did. This is stupid. This is all so stupid.”

Even though what he said was specifically meant for the situation that had just occurred, John knew that he was speaking more broadly now, and felt inclined to agree. He was about to speak up, but Professor Channing – probably for the first time since first year – turned around and had a questioning look on his face. “Is anyone confused?”

Everyone shook their heads ‘no’ like saints. Then he nodded, blushing, and turned back around, resuming his teaching.

“I know,” John replied, his voice lowered. “They just can’t accept it because it’s different. Well, fuck ‘em all, is what I say.”

Paul chuckled. “You’re right, though. You know, this is the kind of stuff that starts wars.” John looked at him with a bit of surprise. He hadn’t really seen it that way, and an odd foreign feeling mingled within him. But he knew it was true. What he said made him feel rather thoughtful.

After that, John couldn’t find the will to fall asleep, so for once, he actually paid attention, and Paul continued scribbling down his notes.

 

***

 

Hours later, Paul was casually sitting  in the common room, reading a book with his legs crossed and dissolving himself in the words. Well, sort of. Truth was, he wasn’t really reading. The book was about a troll invasion that had happened a few centuries past, and frankly, Paul couldn’t absorb himself in it.

But he wasn’t reading for the enlightenment of troll history. No – Paul had a plan.

A few days had passed since he had promised George he would go and talk to Pattie for him, and today he was determined to follow through with that. Plus, it seemed that there was no better day than today. John and George were busy making Quidditch plans and preparing for tryouts. Ringo was off doing God knows what with Mo. And Paul was left on his own.

So he had an extremely boring book in hand, trying to let himself dissolve into that instead of the prominent scarlet and gold that threatened to swallow his vision.

He flipped the page as if he truly was reading, until finally, Pattie Boyd stepped casually into the common room – and even better – by herself.

Paul made eye contact with her, and he slammed the book shut. “Pattie!” he exclaimed cheerfully, standing up from the plushy chair from which he was sitting on.

Instantly, she smiled at him, and walked forwards in his direction. “Hello, Paul,” she greeted, her voice like honey to his ears.

Paul smiled welcomingly. She always seemed to be in a good mood, and that was helpful. Although the extra help was nice, he put on some of his charm, and leaned in a bit. “I’ve wanted to talk to you,” Paul said mysteriously.

Pattie laughed like the angel she was, and played along, saying suspiciously, “Is that so?” Her tone came out normal, but she had bitten down slightly on her lip and a surprised twinkle appeared in her eyes, and he knew she was slightly confused as to why he was talking to her. And expectedly so. After all, they’d not had a full, proper conversation with each other before.  

A bit of flirting never hurt anyone, thought Paul happily as he deliberated on ways to approach his intended subject. “Of course!” he said, clutching at his chest feigning offense. “I could never stay away from you long, Pattie, dear, you should know.”

She sighed, like she was considering. “You do seem quite deprived. We might as well take a seat, then.” Paul smiled, satisfied. She was good. They moved to some of the larger cushiony chairs and sat there. Paul sat Indian-style, and Pattie merely crossed her legs. She looked at him expectantly through her eyelashes. “So, what is it you want to talk about, Paul?”

Paul surreptitiously inspected his fingernails, maintaining a casual appearance. “ _Well_ , you do know my friend George Harrison, yes?”

He shifted his gaze to see her reaction. A wise look of understanding passed over Pattie’s face, and then suddenly, Paul was the confused one.

She bit down on a finger and laughed. “What?” Pattie asked, looking quite amused at the expression Paul was making.

“You totally knew what I was going to say,” he accused. Pattie shrugged, and he couldn’t believe the amount of perception girls apparently had.

“Well, it’s not difficult,” Pattie replied matter-of-factly. Paul fixed her with a blank stare, and she sighed. “Men are so obvious. Paul, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t talk often. And then suddenly – years later, I might add – you want to? And about George? How much more obvious could you get?”

Paul jokingly pouted. “Pattie. I had a whole speech prepared and everything, and you just blew my whole case with an expression.”

Pattie mimicked his pout. “And you’ve could’ve spent minutes with me. Just imagine the agony.” Paul chuckled, and mentally asked why he didn’t spend more time with her. She was funny. But his thoughts were interrupted when suddenly, the joking atmosphere had vanished, and she looked at him seriously.

“But you know, I’ll spare you some mercy and cut it down to a few seconds.” Paul felt a bit surprised at the change of tone, but nevertheless prepared himself for what he’d been waiting to hear. “I do fancy George. I’ll look past the embarrassment and admit it, I might as well. And if he wants to go with me, then I’ll say it right here, Paul – I would like that very much. But if he sent you to talk to me about it, then he can forget it, unless he comes to me himself.”

Pattie then, with an air of pride, stood up and sauntered away into her dormitory.

 

***

 

They were in the Dining Hall when Paul decided to bring it up.

John sat next to him this time, and Ringo and George were on the other side of the table. Paul, unlike the first day of school, was not very hungry and had barely anything on his plate. On the other hand, the other three were gorging themselves like kings.

Their lunch went on like usual, cracking jokes and only carrying a light conversation. It took a while before it went to a pause, and Paul was taking advantage of that moment to speak.

But, of course, Ringo just had to make a comment as well.

“So, Quidditch tryouts are starting up in a week, yeah?”

George’s head snapped up so fast that Paul got whiplash. “Yeah! John and I were discussing it all yesterday. John’s the captain for his house, so he’ll have—”

“The extreme pleasure in picking a bunch of scrawny fifth years ‘n up who think they can play, but can’t,” John interrupted. George didn’t seem to mind though. He just nodded his head dazedly.

Paul, despite his interest in the topic, was grumpy the whole conversation, refusing to speak at all until he had a chance to bring up what he needed to say. Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t squeeze a single word to George the whole time. It wasn’t until their meal ended that he got to report what Pattie had said to him.

George was about to stroll the other direction to his own common room. Paul felt a flicker of irritation before promptly shouting out, “’Ey! Geo!”

George spun around in Paul’s direction, lifting a questioning eyebrow before seeing who was talking to him, and George smiled. “Oh, hey, Paul. You were awfully silent today.”

Again, the irritation rose up in him, and the thought, _Well, no one let me talk_ , flashed bitterly in his mind, but he decided to ignore it. “I talked to Pattie yesterday,” Paul informed, quickly and urgently. There. He’d come out right with it. Interruption-free.

George’s eyes widened, eyebrows disappearing into his bangs and mouth twitching. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The irritation shaped into a really ugly, loud feeling that Paul did not want to express, and he shoved it away. “Doesn’t matter,” Paul shrugged in an attempt to be nonchalant, “but I’m here now.”

George nodded at that. Then his eyes lit up again, and he chewed on his lip. “So, you talked to Pattie,” he said, gaze dropping and tasting the words. He looked up again, hopefully. “What’d she say?”

Paul scratched at his nose, and cleared his throat. “Er, well, she sort of knew what I was gonna say – before I was gonna say it…”

His friend twisted his features into one of confusion. “Really? How’d that come about?”

Again, Paul shrugged as if having no idea. “Dunno,” he lied. “But anyway, she told me – like, literally said, I swear – that she fancies you, and wouldn’t mind going out with you.”

George glowed with delight.

“But,” Paul continued, and saw the other’s face drop, “she won’t, because I was there and you weren’t.”

And then George stared at him, disappointed and twisting Paul’s gut horribly with sadness. “Oh,” he mumbled quietly.

“Yeah,” Paul said unhelpfully.

“Makes sense,” George said. It seemed like the whole atmosphere had changed, because when George was sad, Paul was sad, and suddenly everything in the room looked miserable. But then, George straightened with a new air of determination. “Well, I’ll ask her then,” George announced, a note of confidence in his voice. “Not straight away, but soon, I think.”

Paul smiled encouragingly and patted his shoulder. “There you go.”

George nodded, as though reassuring himself. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Paul echoed unnecessarily. “Well, I’ll see you later, then.” And from there, they went their separate ways, both of them parting with the blossoming feeling that something exciting was about to happen.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dead nervous about this O.O
> 
> Send some love?


End file.
